Island of the Star Lords

by James L. Ferrell

  The labs at Apache Point are a modern marvel in every sense of the word. From the beginning of the time travel program, it had been standard operating procedure to disguise the agents as traders. It was also a matter of common sense that they should wear clothing contemporaneous to the period when dealing with the ancients. It was the most effective way of explaining discrepancies in language and ignorance of customs. Trade items usually consisted of synthetic fabrics, food, costume jewelry, spices, and topical ointments manufactured at the facility. All items were matched to the time period in which the expedition would be operating. Everything except food was made using a chemical process designed to ensure that nothing survived beyond ten years. This guaranteed that archaeologists would discover nothing of a modern nature during their digs. For practical reasons, and due to the uncertainty of what the expedition might encounter, there would be no trade items carried on this assignment except food.

  Pre-trip training in language and customs associated with the target time period was also required. The Apache Point linguistics lab had a staff of more than thirty scientists working on different forms of ancient speech. It is equipped with state-of-the art electronic aids, including sleep and hypnotic teaching techniques. Most of the material the technicians worked with consisted of actual conversations with ancient speakers that had been obtained by time agents using mini-recorders. This method ensured that the actual way in which words were pronounced could be employed. It had been of enormous help in avoiding costly mistakes. But because very little contact had been made with the Fir Bolg, the linguistics library was limited. Consequently, only about thirty hours of language instruction was available to Matt's team. They would have to rely on Taylor's expertise to bridge the barrier when first contact was made.

  The three of them spent the evening before departure in Matt's apartment discussing how they would proceed. Donovan, whose nickname was Jake, said, "I had some time to study this map while waiting for you and Taylor to return from the airport." He spread a modern map of Ireland out on the coffee table.

  "Based on the briefing you gave me, this is where DeLong transported from." He put his finger on a spur of land jutting out into the southeast corner of Lough Corrib. It looked to be about fifteen miles north of Galway City. "From what I could tell looking at the satellite images, it was a well-chosen location. There's a stand of trees that form a semi-circle for several hundred yards across the terrain between the highway and shoreline. They would hide the Chronocom beam flash from anyone who might be in the area at the moment of transport. Also, there's what looks like an ancient cairn a little way between the trees and the water. Since he's supposed to be studying Irish ruins, it would give him a good excuse to be in such an isolated area if any of the locals started asking questions."

  Taylor looked thoughtful. "Do you have any observations on which way he might have gone after the transport?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "I've given it some thought. If it were me, I'd head in an easterly direction, toward Tuam." He pulled his finger across the map to a location about twenty-five miles to the northeast, where a small town was shown. "I've been there myself. There are some stone circles and cairns dating back several thousand years scattered between the two locations. The name itself comes from Latin, meaning 'burial ground.' It would be a good place for him to begin his work."

  They all exchanged glances. Matt and Taylor both nodded agreement. "Good work, Jake," Matt complimented him. "We'll start from the same place as Mike did. He's a very pragmatic guy, not given to doing anything in a haphazard way. Maybe we can come close to retracing his route by following a logical geographic progression."

  "It sounds good to me," Taylor put in. "But since our flight leaves at nine tomorrow morning, I think we should get our equipment ready and go to bed." She made a wry face. "If I know my Marines, and I think I do, they'll have our helicopter ready to go before daylight."

  Matt and Jake both laughed. "You are correct, as usual," Matt said in a simplistic tone. "Jake, we'll meet you at the administration building at six in the morning."

  Jake nodded, pursed his lips in thought for a second then said, "Tar mecham." It was one of the things he had learned to say in the Fir Bolg tongue. He smiled, turned and went out the door.

  Taylor and Matt exchanged glances. "Tar mecham," Taylor repeated, her voice almost a whisper. "God have mercy."

  Chapter 4

  The Engineer

  Arthur Voyles enjoyed the honor of being a major in the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve, where he had served his country with distinction in the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts. He was the son of an American father from Charleston, S.C., and an Iranian mother, Leila Abbasi, who was born and raised in Tehran. Late in her teenage years, she had escaped her native country and slipped across the Iraqi border where she took up residence with relatives already living there. Gifted with above average intelligence, she studied English in secondary school and became proficient in the language.

  When she was twenty-three, she obtained a job with the American consulate in Cutter. It was there that she met her husband, Lawrence Voyles, a Marine captain serving as military attaché to the consulate general. She later immigrated to America with him, where they took up residence in Richmond, Virginia. Shortly thereafter, their son, Arthur, was born.

  Having inherited his mother's ambition and intelligence, Arthur excelled in high school and obtained a scholastic scholarship to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. In less than five years, he had earned his baccalaureate in electronic engineering and a master's degree in applied physics. He had always considered his accomplishments at MIT, and his rise to the rank of major in the Marine Corps, as two of the great benchmarks of his life. His expertise in electronics led to employment with Capital Engineering, a firm specializing in missile guidance systems and jet propulsion technology. His career with that company rose to prominence when he developed several innovative concepts for booster rockets to be used in space exploration. Given his superior aptitude for original design, it was not long before he was recruited by the National Security Agency to work at a newly launched research facility in New Mexico. Though he was proud of his work in the private sector, it was there that he reached the pinnacle of his career: The design and construction of a small instrument known as the Chronocom pager, a device that allowed field agents to maintain contact with the great time transporter at Apache Point.

  Voyles could not have been happier with his tour of duty at the facility. An intellectual in spirit and attitude, he found ample opportunity to associate with others of his skill level. However, being a social introvert, the number of people with whom he developed a close relationship was limited.

  In the first months of his employment at the facility he became acquainted with Dr. John Kasdan, with whom he shared a cultural connection. Dr. Kasdan, an amicable man of middle age, had been born in Iran, but had immigrated to America at an early age. Like Voyles, he had acquired expertise in his fields of study, Middle Eastern history and archaeology. He had subsequently been offered the directorship of the department concerned with that subject at Apache Point. Both men had enjoyed a close relationship for several years, often socializing outside the confines of the facility. As their friendship progressed, they had also become acquainted with each other's families.

  Leila Voyles and Kasdan had often discussed the current state of affairs in Iran, and expressed regret that their native country chose to remain outside the social and political reach of other countries, especially those of the western world. Given those circumstances, it was no small wonder that Arthur Voyles was shocked into disbelief when Kasdan was arrested by NSA agents and charged with espionage and murder.

  His friend had vanished that same day, with no word of a trial or his whereabouts. The official word was that he had committed suicide and his remains taken to an unknown place. But Voyles disbelieved that story. Kasdan had never shown signs of despondence. Neither had he appeared to be disassociated or depressed, two
prime afflictions that usually precede suicide. Afraid to ask too many questions for fear of guilt by association, Voyles became withdrawn and stayed to himself.

  He hung out at the Marine officer's club at the facility, eavesdropping on conversations being carried on at the bar, straining to hear small-talk in the cafeteria and in break rooms that might give him a clue as to where Kasdan had been taken. He learned nothing. Then one day the information he had been seeking came from an unexpected source. While running calibration tests on the Chronocom, he became party to a conversation between two maintenance technicians with whom he was working. They had all been performing routine procedures, when one of them asked him a shocking question.

  "Say, Mr. Voyles, whatever happened to Dr. Kasdan? It's been a long time since he was here. I believe he was a friend of yours?" This came from Millie Rakestraw, a short brunette who handled minor repair work. "I sure liked him. He was a really nice guy."

  It took Voyles a few seconds to recover his poise and answer the girl. "I don't know, Millie. I've often wondered myself." He felt his heartbeat quicken but showed no outward sign of nervousness.

  Ed Gleason, the other technician, looked around the immediate area as though checking for eavesdroppers then said in a guarded voice, "I've got a Marine friend who's a security guard in the admin building. Don't quote me on this, but he told me one evening while we were having a few beers in the enlisted club, that Kasdan was arrested by some plainclothes cops just over a year ago." His eyes narrowed, and he glanced behind him as though making sure no one had walked up. "You guys remember the girl who was found drowned in the swimming pool? You know, the sexy blonde?" He was referring to Gail Wilson, a computer systems analyst who had had an ongoing personal relationship with Kasdan.

  The others nodded but said nothing. Millie unconsciously put a hand over her mouth.

  "Well, this Marine, my friend, says it was no accident. The word is that Kasdan killed her to keep her mouth shut about something he was involved in. As well as I remember, both events happened at about the same time."

  "I never heard anything about that!" Voyles blurted out, his voice a little louder than he intended. He glanced around the nearby area then said in a more guarded tone, "Did your friend say what happened to him?"

  Gleason shrugged his shoulders. "He doesn't really know, but the scuttlebutt is that he's being held in Cuba, at Guantanamo."

  Voyles seemed to go into a trance for a moment, eyes vacant, staring at nothing.

  "Hey, Mr. Voyles, you okay?" Millie asked in a kind voice.

  Voyles shook his head as though waving away a worrisome gnat. He looked at the girl for a few seconds then said mechanically, "Yes. I'm okay, Millie. Just got a little dizzy for a moment, that's all."

  "Well, we're about finished here," Gleason said. "Why don't you go lie down for a little while? Millie and I can close up shop."

  "Yes, I think I will. Thanks, Ed." With that, he turned and walked to the elevator.

  Back in his apartment, Voyles sat down in an easy chair and went over the conversation with Gleason for the fourth time. Thinking about it brought some clarity to Kasdan's disappearance, and the suicide cover story concocted by the military. If Gleason's Marine friend was correct, and Kasdan was being held at Guantanamo, it might prove difficult or impossible to contact him. But where there was a will, there was a way. He sat motionless for almost an hour, staring at the wall. Finally, a faint smile lit his face.

  He got up and walked over to his drawing board. Most of the engineers kept drawing boards and instruments in their apartments to work on projects while off duty. It also ensured that any new ideas could be put down on paper in rough form before returning to their offices. Such an idea had just materialized in Voyles' mind. However, he had no intention of bringing it to completion in his office. The project would take at least two weeks to achieve fruition and would require complete secrecy.

  He laid out a new sheet of paper on the drawing board then pulled a mechanical arm down to where he could see through an attached magnifying glass. Picking up a sharp pencil, he began sketching the outline of an instrument that he had designed in larger form ten years before. When finished, it would be a miniature version of the Chronocom pager.

  Two days later, Voyles met with a friend who owned a company called Photo Design Specialists. Voyles had known Bill Campodine, the owner, since their college days at M.I.T. Bill was an easy-going man whose specialty was book cover design. He had often boasted that there was nothing beyond his creative abilities. If you could dream it, he could design it. That slogan was why Voyles was meeting with him this day: He needed something that only Campodine could and would create.

  They met for lunch in a small restaurant in Albuquerque. Voyles looked across the table at his friend. As they ate their meal, they exchanged pleasantries about their college days and had a few laughs. When lunch was over, and they were drinking coffee, Voyles said, "Bill, I need a favor if you can do it for me."

  Campodine, stirring sugar into his coffee, glanced up. "Anything for you, Arthur. What do you need?" He smiled genially.

  "I need a U.S. passport and a U.S. Navy identification card as they would have looked in 1950. The Navy card should show the bearer with the rank of captain," his voice was tight. He could feel his pulse quicken as he waited for Campodine to react to the strange request.

  The other man stared at him for a long moment then his eyes narrowed. "Is this some kind of joke, Arthur? You're not serious." He was still holding the spoon in his coffee cup but was not stirring it anymore.

  Voyles looked around the room then back at Campodine. "I am serious, Bill. I know what I'm asking appears to be beyond the pale, but I give you my word that you won't be involved or even mentioned should the documents ever be questioned." He ran a nervous hand through his hair.

  "Why do you need something like that? Surely you already have a legitimate passport. But one from the 1950's? And a Navy ID card of the same year? This has to be a joke." Campodine grinned, but he sounded apprehensive.

  Voyles nodded. "I do have a passport, but this isn't for me." He paused a few seconds for effect then said, "As you know, I work for the NSA. But this can't be considered an official request. Everything has to be off the record. I can't explain more without violating security protocol."

  Campodine did not like the sound of that. "Arthur, you know I trust you, but I could lose everything I've worked for if I do this for you and it's used for some illegal purpose. Even though the documents would be long out-of-date, they would still bear false United States seals."

  "You won't be involved, I promise. As soon as the mission is accomplished, the passport and ID card will be destroyed. Again, I give you my word that you will not be connected to the operation in any way."

  Campodine sat still for a full minute, considering his options. Voyles had used the word 'mission,' implying that creating and forging names on government documents was an official NSA request. If anything went wrong, and he was implicated, he could use that as a defense. He finally decided that he really had no choice but to acquiesce. Having known Voyles for many years, he did not really believe that he would be involved in anything illegal. He blew out a breath and asked, "When do you need them?"

  "As soon as you can do it," he said, reaching into his inner coat pocket. He pulled out a brown envelope and slid it across the table to Campodine. "That's all the information you'll need. The photograph may have to be resized and changed to black-and-white to make it look authentic. I would like for you to add some false entries in the passport's visas section to make it appear that the owner has visited a few countries in the past. In other words, make it look like it's been used several times." Voyles lowered his voice and continued in a conspiratorial tone. "A used passport attracts less attention than a new one."

  "Okay, Arthur. I'll get started on it right away." Campodine stuck the envelope in his pocket. "Do you want to meet back here next Tuesday?"

  "That will be fine," Voyles respo
nded. "And I won't forget this, Bill."

  "I hope you do forget it," Campodine said, his tone sullen. He handed the check across the table to Voyles. "And you can pay for this, too."

  Voyles noted that Campodine's hand was trembling slightly as he took the check from him. They got up and left the restaurant without saying anything more.

  Two weeks later Voyles sat in his apartment putting the final touches on the miniaturized pager he had created. It was less than half the size of the normal version, measuring only one-and-a-half inches square. He had just installed the tiny piece of stellarite that he had stolen from the laboratory the previous day. This was the element that enabled the pagers to maintain contact with the main source that powered the Chronocom. The fragment was only the size of a pinhead, but that miniscule amount was sufficient for the two devices to stay connected. All that was required for a time shift to take place was for someone to set the LEDs on top of the pager to the desired target date then press his right thumb against the Lexan pressure plate on the front of the device. This particular pager would react to whoever was the first to use it. However, once used, it would only respond to that person's thumbprint. No other person could activate it.

  He laid it on the table in front of him and glanced at the fake passport and ID card that Campodine had delivered as promised. He picked up the passport and examined it for the third time. His own government-issued passport lay on the table. He compared the two documents side-by-side.

  The fake was slightly different from the modern version, but it looked real. As he had requested, Campodine had created four stamped entries in the visas section: Germany, Ireland, England, and France, all selected at random. Each entry showed different dates entering and leaving those countries. No customs official would be able to tell that the document was fake. However, never having seen such an antique item in real life, he could not vouch for its authentic appearance. But he knew how thorough Campodine was and was confident that it would serve its purpose.